


Bugger Destiny

by thestuffedalligator



Series: susanathema is a thing i ship now i guess [1]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Fluff, Present Tense, but it turns into real prose I swear, wacky formatting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestuffedalligator/pseuds/thestuffedalligator
Summary: Death comes to Susan (rarely a good sign), and tells her that one of the worlds he reaps for is going to have its apocalypse quite soon, only somebody misplaced the child foretold to bring about a glorious age of darkness and fire.The thing is, Death likes this world. He’s taken an interest, and is there any way that Susan would mind keeping an eye on the child? Keep him upright, and all that.It’s just until the apocalypse passes, Susan tells herself.And then she meets the American.





	Bugger Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Fair play, this has some weird formatting because it started as a headcanon post on Tumblr that got away on me and turned itself into an actual fanfiction.

Death comes to Susan (rarely a good sign), and tells her that one of the worlds he reaps for is going to have its apocalypse quite soon, only somebody misplaced the child foretold to bring about a glorious age of darkness and fire.

The thing is, Death likes this world. He’s taken an interest, and is there any way that Susan would mind keeping an eye on the child? Keep him upright, and all that.

It’s just until the apocalypse passes, Susan tells herself.

Not long after, Tadfield Primary gets a new English teacher. Ms. Stohelit, with her cool black sweaters and cool black pants and hair with a cool black streak running through it, is immediately a favourite of the Them. Gone are the works of Dahl and Rowling, and in their stead are books on the glorious military campaigns of people with names like ‘Genghis Khan’ and ‘Boudicca.’ Vocabulary among Tadfield children doubles overnight, and Adam immediately devises games around them, and Susan watches, not invisible, but more unnoticeable, her eyes starbright blue.

“He’s really quite remarkable,” she admits to his parents when they ask after him. “I can tell he’s bound to have a brilliant future.”

It’s only for a bit longer, Susan tells herself.

Then one day, the American (Susan learns that it’s not a word said in England as much as it’s sneered) arrives. Susan finds her one night, stressed to tears, obsessing over a book of prophecy.

With a stiffness that makes her internal self cringe, she asks if she’d like to come in for a cup of tea.

While the tea cools, everything in Anathema Device comes spilling out. The years spent bent over the flashcards, the lifetime spent planned out in a book, the eyes she feels watching her, the pressure to perform.

Susan admits quietly that, yes, she knows something about what that’s like.

Anathema leaves back for her cottage. She kisses Susan on the cheek and thanks her for listening. It’s right over the birthmark that glows when she’s angry. It burns for an entirely different reason tonight.

The next night, Anathema is hit by a car.

Susan feels it in her, well, not her stomach, more in her bones, the ancient sense of the Duty. The air goes the greyish-purple of slowed time, and she runs until she spots the Bentley.

The gentlemen look at her with raised eyebrows.

There’s an awkward pause of recognition.

“Oh,” says the one in a white coat. “You’re - er-”

“Yes,” she says. She’s fighting back the urge to slip into the Voice. “Is she all right?”

The one in the black suit probably rolls his eyes. She can’t tell. “Oh, she’s fine. You don’t have to fussss.”

She sees the dent on the Bentley. Sees the bicycle.

Something flashes starbright blue in her eyes. Crowley suddenly feels unseasonably cold.

Anathema only accepts the ride from the two men because Susan is also coming. If she notices that they appear to be frightened of her, she doesn’t say.

Susan gets out with Anathema in front of her cottage, with a final, frosty look back at the driver.

Anathema pauses. She looks back at Susan.

She defies Agnes Nutter* and asks if she’d like to spend the night.

Maybe a bit longer, Susan tells herself.

* _ Unbeknownst to her, the second volume of the Nice and Accurate Prophecies starts with: _

_ Pre-Scripte: Should the Daughter’s Daughter of He who hails from the World Atop The Turtle arrive to Ye, as such things are Not Bounde to Prophecie, I tell Ye this, Anathema: Get On That. _

* * *

Armageddon comes.

Susan is with the Them as they confront the Horsepeople. She’s the voice in their ears telling them,  _ They’re only ideas, yours are stronger than them, I know they are _ , and then there’s the sad jingle of a sword, a pair of balances, and a crown falling to the tarmac.

All that’s left is Death. And Susan is furious. How dare you, she says. How dare you lecture me about humanity, about faith, hope, and then side with them? She gestures to the sad collection of junk on the tarmac. How did you fall so low?

Then the terrible wings open behind him, huge black sheets of night cut out of the daylight.

Susan blinks. “Oh,” she says. “You’re not my grandfather at all, are you?”

The horrible wings move. Susan moves faster. There’s a popping crunch, and then a slow, silent moment as the winged Death reels backwards from the fist. The sound of his form hitting the tarmac is a clatter, accompanied by the tiny plinking noise of teeth.

It’s the only sound on the tarmac for a moment. Then right behind her, she hears in a voice like a crypt door slamming, I WOULD HOPE YOU’D HAVE MORE FAITH IN ME THAN THAT.

Her grandfather eases himself off Binky. The Them make the appropriate noises of admiration. “He’s got an actual horse,” Wensleydale says with awe.

IT DOES ME NO GOOD TO SEE ASPECTS OF MYSELF FALLING TO THE ILLUSION OF GRANDEUR, he says as he walks to the winged Death. CALLING YOURSELF LORD, PRETENDING TO BE AZRAEL? HOW DARE YOU BE SO PRESUMPTUOUS. BUT WHAT GALLS ME MOST IS YOUR UTTER DISREGARD FOR LIFE.

WE ARE MEANT TO RIDE, says the winged Death.

YES, says her grandfather. BUT TELL ME. IN ALL THESE MILLENNIA, DID YOU EVER QUESTION WHO YOU WERE MEANT TO RIDE AGAINST?

The winged Death says nothing. Her grandfather kneels down, and his voice is a leaden whisper. I WANT YOU TO REMEMBER THIS IN YOUR MOST PRIVATE MOMENTS. REMEMBER WHY WE TAKE UP THE SCYTHE, AND NOT THE SWORD.

The winged Death spits another tooth. There’s a snap of thunder, and he vanishes.

“So is that all this was?” Susan asks. “An elaborate scheme so you can shame another Death into growing a sense of humility?!”

ALL? CERTAINLY NOT. He sighs, a sound like sand falling in a tomb. I NEVER LIED. I SAID I TOOK AN INTEREST IN THIS WORLD, AND I DID.

His starbright gaze turned to where the winged Death was lying on the tarmac. YES, I DID FIND THIS QUITE…SATISFYING. BUT IF YOU THINK THAT THIS WAS ALL I SENT YOU HERE FOR, he nods to the Them, I SUGGEST YOU LOOK TO THEM.

She sees her students. Exhausted, glowing, grinning, and above all else, alive. They’re all alive, she thinks. Them and their parents and their friends and everyone else on this mad little billiard ball of a planet.

Binky trots up. Her grandfather pulls himself back into the saddle. I CAN TAKE YOU BACK NOW, IF YOU’D LIKE.

Susan considers it. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “I have lessons I need to plan, supplies I need to buy-”

She pauses and wheels around to face the Them. “And you four, if you think the apocalypse is a good enough reason to skip your summer reading, I will knot your arms behind your heads, is that clear?”

There’s a general chorus along the lines of “Yes, Ms. Stohelit.”

She nods. “And besides-“

She hears the yell. She turns. She sees Anathema running across the tarmac for her.

Her grandfather nods. IF YOU EVER RECONSIDER, he says, LET ME KNOW.

There’s a snap of reins, and she watches him disappear into the air.

When Anathema leaps into her arms, the inertia makes the two of them spin. Their teeth click together, but Susan swallows the pain, sinks deeper into the kiss.

They part only for enough distance to look each other in the eyes.

“Hi,” Anathema says.

“Hello,” says Susan.

“That was-”

“My grandfather.”

Anathema smiles. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Of course,” Susan says. “It’s a long story. But now we have all the time in the world.”

“Ah,” says Pepper. “Ms. Stohelit’s a lesbian*.”

“I thought she was English,” says Brian.

* _ By strictest definition, Susan was not a lesbian. This is because the word “lesbian” does not appear in any language across the Discworld, as it derives from the name of a Roundworld island off the coast of Greece. The closest Disc equivalent would be “psalidian,” deriving from the Ancient Ephebian poetess Psalidia, best known for her poem, “Invocation to Astoria.” The poem, consisting of the name, “Astoria,” and a minimum of fifteen minutes of staring out of the nearest window with a distant, wistful expression, has been a source of considerable interpretation among academia, or at least those circles that are male and straight. _


End file.
